


These Zombies Are Made For Dyin'

by poptart_funeral



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 02:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16255001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptart_funeral/pseuds/poptart_funeral
Summary: A zombie apocalypse set in 1949, Boston Massachusetts. The survivors must deal with the hordes of undead as well as other survivors, because I am a basic bitch and frankly just wrote this in class because I'm bored as hell. Enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

     Late in the evening, the TV cut from the regularly scheduled game show, the words “PLEASE STAND BY” plastered across the screen with a loud continuous beep in the background. This continued for 10 seconds, and then cut to an image of Harry S. Truman, the president himself! “Ladies and gentlemen,” he spoke, his face grim. “This is a national, possibly global emergency. A strange sickness has spread across America, turning ordinary citizens, into cannibalistic hungry monsters. It seems this sickness is transmitted through bites, and within hours an infected person will succumb to the illness and die, and within a few more they will rise again, hungry for your flesh. It is still unknown how to permanently kill one of these monsters, so the recommended course of action is to either run or disable them. Avoid all contact with infected individuals. Stay indoors. Barricade your homes. The National Guard and army have been deployed. God bless you, America. God bless us a--” The president’s words were cut off as the “PLEASE STAND BY” screen returned, along with the beeping.

     Conor O’Sullivan stood from his sofa and hurried to the television, turning it off. He paced in his living room, eyes wide, sweat forming on his forehead. Is this real? He began to panic, when a knock on his door snapped him out of it, causing him to jump out of his skin. He warily approached his door, locking it, and peering out his window between the curtain. He breathed a sigh of relief; it was his childhood friend and neighbor, Alan McCormack, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a rifle in hand. He hastily unlocked and opened the door, and his friend rushed in, the bolt clicking behind him. “Christ, Conor, can you believe this?” Throwing the bag and gun to the sofa, Alan’s voice was even higher than normal, cracking from his nerves getting the better of him.

     “Alan, I just saw it myself, I can hardly believe it. I can’t!” Conor’s voice shared the same hint of nervousness. His deep voice brought up an octave, he spoke again. “The Guard’s comin’ by, right? You think they’ll want us? We’re still enlisted.”

     “I don’t know, man. They never really covered ‘apocalypse’ in any sort of briefing. But just in case,” Alan opened his duffle bag, inside was all of his military kit: his uniform, spare clothes, shovel, knife, canteen, even a few first aid kits. “Even if they don’t, we’re gonna need to be ready for anything. Go get your kit, I’ll barricade the door.” Alan was a big guy, and was already moving the couch in front of the door. Conor ran to his room and flung open the closet door. He opened a trunk in the corner, inside was all of his gear, including his certificate of Honorable Discharge from the military. Reminiscing about the military with Alan and everyone else, he set aside the certificate and loaded up his own duffle bag. As he’d only just gotten home from work a couple hours ago, he never really bothered to get undressed until he was ready to go to sleep, so he was still ready to go. He took an extra minute to put on his belt and holster anyway, putting his M1911 pistol into it, and a few spare magazines in the pouch on the other side of the belt. Grabbing the rifle he always kept in shape by his bed, he headed out to the living room, where Alan had barricaded the door with the heavy couch, and was now moving any furniture away from the windows, shutting the curtains.

     “Good job, man.” Conor laid down his bag and gun, and quickly closed the remaining curtains, locking the windows as well. “Stay here, keep an eye out for the Guard. I’m gonna go barricade the back door.” Just as he said that, he heard a loud THUD against the back door. And another. And two more. “Oh, fuck!” Conor sprinted for the door, vaulting the kitchen table and slamming his shoulder into the door, forcing it shut just as the lock gave way and the frame splintered. With every thud against the door, he was sent back just a little more. The door opened with just enough room for a pale grey arm to reach in, scrambling for something, anything to grab.

     “Conor!” Alan yelled, and Conor turned, slamming his back against the door to face him. Alan raised his gun to his eye. “Get your pistol out and open the door!”

     “Alan, you crazy bastard!” Conor yelled, smirking as he threw himself from the door. Positioning himself just next to Alan, he drew his pistol and aimed at the door as the dead started pouring in. The first shot came from Alan’s M1 Garand, slamming into the chest of one of the undead. It staggered, but pressed on. Conor fired off two shots to another’s chest, not phasing it. Panic set in as the undead pressed them back into the living room, and the surefire PING of Alan’s spent magazine ejecting itself only furthered the panic as Alan had to reload, leaving Conor to cover him from the unstoppable hordes. Taking a deep breath and steadying his aim, Conor tried something new, and put a round right into a zombie’s skull. Its head snapped back as the bullet hit, blood and grey matter splattering across the walls and zombies behind it, and it dropped, dead. Conor gasped, it worked! He fired off another, and then another, zombies dropping in his kitchen before they could even reach the living room. As Alan finished reloading, Conor yelled to him. “The head, Alan! Aim for the head!”

     Alan and Conor made short work of the undead with this revelation, and within a single minute both soldiers had killed off a little over a dozen undead. “Alan, take my gun, reload everything, including your gun. I’ll barricade that door now.” Conor said, handing Alan the gun, who ejected the magazine and started loading in new cartridges. Conor went to lift the table, but a furious knocking from the front door distracted him. “Alan,” he whispered, moving the table slowly to the broken door. “Check the windows!” Alan did as he was told, and brandished his rifle, leaving Conor’s pistol on the floor. A sigh of relief caught Conor’s attention.

     “It’s the Guard!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the National Guard base, Conor and Alan are assigned a team and get their orders.

     A lone jeep was there to pick them up, as they, along with their neighbor Jeff Taylor, were the only National Guard members in the area. Conor threw his duffle bag in the trunk of the jeep, keeping his pistol holstered and rifle slung over his shoulder. He hopped into the back seat, right next to Alan, and the driver, Private Christopher McKenzie, set off. A somber silence fell over the cab as the jeep drove past undead and people desperate for help. There was nothing they could do, even if they were allowed to the jeep was full. They had a mission. Conor was the first to break the silence.

     “So…” He began, his voice hardly above a whisper. He cleared his throat. “So. McKenzie. Where are we headed?”

     “We’re going to the base in Boston,” Jeff interrupted. “Captain Richmond has special orders for us, given that this is a uhh, special case.”

     “We’re the National Guard, it’s our job to help during disasters like this, right?” Alan shifted in his seat. “This is a State of Emergency, for sure. We’ll probably be deployed to help people, maybe even just sent out to eradicate as many of these things as possible.”

     “That reminds me,” Conor spoke up. “Have either of you guys been able to kill them yet?” Both the driver and the passenger shook their heads. “Headshots. I’m guessing it has something to do with the brain, because nothing stopped them, not even a full Garand mag, but a single headshot brought ‘em down.”

     “You have to tell the commander!” Chris spoke for the first time the entire ride. “Damn, I wish I’d known that earlier, y’know. Before…” Chris’s voice trailed off with a hitch. Jeff put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

     The rest of the ride was silent, and after a few hours they arrived to the training yard in Boston. Troops were piling out of jeeps and rushing inside. The fencing around the compound kept the undead out, and the only entrance was guarded by several soldiers. Once inside, the soldiers were to report to the locker rooms and put on whatever they hadn’t already had on. Conor and Alan silently got in uniform and proceeded to the briefing room, where Captain Richmond was debriefing the entire company.

     “Men,” he spoke. “This is a State of Emergency. Across the entire nation, these ‘undead’ are rising, and more and more are being created as more and more people are succumbing. Unfortunately, there is no known way to put them down for good. I believe this is the reason why I can see that my company has dwindled. It saddens me to see so many brave souls missing from this room. Know that your fellow soldiers will be missed, and their memory honored. So, until a surefire way to put them down is revealed, our objective is simply to divide and offer help to any people you see, and any undead you come across are to be avoided or disabled, by any means necessary.”

     “CAPTAIN!” Conor interrupted. “There is a way to kill them! The head, aim for the head! I’m not sure quite what it is, but when me and Corporal McCormack were facing them, we found out that destroying the brain will kill them!” The captain blinked in astonishment.

     “Alright, men! You heard Sergeant O’Sullivan! The only way to take these monsters out is by destroying the brain! While not the best course of action, I recommend using your bayonets or any other melee weapons to do so! Ammo may soon become a precious commodity, so use it sparingly. Our orders stand, divide into your respective fireteams and find any citizens in need of assistance, and kill as many of those undead bastards as you can. Dismissed!” And with that, the troops made their way to their fireteams.

     Conor and Alan were lucky to be in a fireteam together, along with one Private John Avery, and Corporal Mason Grace. Conor, as the highest ranking member of the fireteam, held the position of leader, Alan was a rifleman, and John and Mason were automatic rifleman and assistant automatic rifleman, respectively. The team was headed for the door, when two of the fireteams who’d previously left burst back in, screaming. “They’re through the gates! Grab a gun, barricade the doors, NOW!” One of them shouted.

     “McCormack, with me! Grace, Avery, flank right!” Conor barked orders at his team, while one of the fireteams that had just burst in turned on their heels, guns at the door. The other fireteam as well as two more grabbed a nearby table, chairs, anything heavy. The first fireteam to push a table to the door caught the worst of it. The table turned over as zombies started coming in through the doors. Snatching the unlucky souls in charge of barricading, they clawed at their uniforms, bit through the cloth, chewed through their necks. Some of them started firing instinctively with their last breaths, sending rogue bullets through the room. Within seconds, the combination of undead and stray bullets had the entire room in chaos. Conor was the first to react, charging through the crowd of retreating soldiers and straight for John and Mason. He grabbed one by the arm, slamming the other with his shoulder. Spinning around as he drew his pistol, he shot 3 zombies dead, feeling bullets whiz past his ears as Alan provided him with covering fire. “Come on, guys! Put those big fucking guns to good use!” He threw John forward, shoving Mason, and beckoning Alan forward. They bolted to the back of the room, overturning a table and taking cover behind it. The soldiers numbers had dwindled greatly, brought down to just a couple dozen, and dropping. The sound of gunfire echoing through the room was deafening, and attracted the attention of even more undead. As more poured in, more soldiers fell. John and Mason exhausted their machine gun ammunition, and soon Alan and Conor ran dry as well. Wielding their bayonets or their guns like clubs, the fireteam rushed headlong into the fray, and, miraculously, made it through the hordes, exhausted, but alive. They were one of only two fireteams to survive the onslaught. What remained of the entire company lie dead or dying on the floor, which was almost entirely covered in a layer of blood.

     “Conor…” Alan panted. “Conor, they’re all...Jesus Christ, Conor, they’re--”

     “I know, Alan. But we’re alive. We have to keep going.” Conor met up with the leader of the only other remaining fireteam. “Search them for ammunition, put down any who are still...still suffering.” He said this as an audible gurgle was heard a few feet to his left. He looked over, and his heart sank.

     “Captain Richmond!” He dropped to his knees by the captain’s side, taking his hand. “Captain, come on!” It was no use. The captain had been bitten, just above the collarbone, and had also been hit in the stomach by a stray bullet. He spat blood, and cleared his throat. Through bloody teeth he spoke.

     “Listen, men.” He strained to talk. “Listen. This...this thing. It’s so much worse than we thought.” He interrupted himself with a violent cough, spitting up more blood. “Screw the military. Whatever’s left of it, anyway. Stick together, but otherwise, you’re free to go. Consider it...consider it an honorable discharge. Hell, if I could, I’d give each of you a medal of honor!” He chuckled, which just turned to more coughing. “Just, just help people. Wherever, however you can. Take whatever you can, and just go.” He took Conor’s hand in his, clinging to it with what little strength he had left. “God bless you, men...God...God bless…” He didn’t finish his sentence. He did not go with a final breath, but a choking gurgle, as blood filled his throat, and he’d lost the strength to hack it up. The captain’s last moments had moved Conor to tears, and he picked up the captain’s own revolver, taking aim through tears.

     “God bless you, sir. It was an honor.” And he pulled the trigger.

* * *

     Conor took solace in knowing all of his fellow soldiers had been lain to rest. His fireteam and the other had spent over an hour scavenging for ammunition and putting down every soldier in the compound. Wishing the other fireteam luck as they took off, he took one last look at the boarded up compound, now a sealed tomb. Any and all weapons, ammunition, provisions, _everything_ had been taken and loaded into vehicles. Conor’s group wished the others luck as they drove down the road, disappearing along the horizon.

     They took a jeep. While rank meant nothing anymore, Conor’s leadership skills during the slaughter had gained the trust of John and Mason, and Alan was always by his side. Mason took the wheel, with Conor in the passenger seat. “Head downtown,” he calmly ordered. “There are a few different places I know where people would definitely hole up. But first, head to the local cop shop. If there aren’t any cops, there may still be weaponry there.” With that, they headed off into town. In a mere day, the world had collapsed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team head into town to the police station to see if there's anybody they can help there.

     The ride into town wasn’t far, but it felt like it took ages. Mason just drove the jeep past and even over anything dead in their way. Anyone who was alive was either gone or in hiding, a smart choice. Every now and then they saw some poor, unlucky soul getting taken down by undead, and there was nothing the team could do but look away and keep driving. All of them had seen combat before, all of them had seen bloodshed and gore, but this? This was something that would turn the stomach of any hardened vet. John even once turned over the door and vomited into the street. But finally, past all of this, they made it to the police station.

     The station seemed secure. Most of the police cars were gone from the lot, and it seemed that the building itself had been blocked off hours earlier. Conor was the first to get out of the car, drawing his trench knife from his belt. “Remember, guys. Ammo is scarce, and noise attracts these things. Use your knives or hit ‘em with your gun, but only fire if  _ absolutely  _ necessary.” He approached the police station, his eyes drifting across the empty lot, the building itself, noting the boarded up windows and locked doors. “Alan, cover me,” he whispered, before raising his voice. “Hello, is anybody in there?” He yelled towards the building. “Is there anyone there!? This is the National Guard! We’re here to help!” Conor waved John forward, and slowly approached a window, peering inside. “I’m only asking one more time, if you need assistance, please respond, or else we’re moving on!”

     The sound of shifting feet to his side as undead started coming from the alleyways alerted John, and he charged, dashing past Conor and tackling an undead to the ground, plunging his bayonet into its skull. Rising to his feet, he shoved another one back, giving him time to line up a perfect shot to the temple. Conor was now fighting as well, wielding his knife with an ice pick grip, he hammered a zombie in the face with the knuckles of the knife, stunning it. He drove his knife into its chin, the blade visible through the zombie’s open mouth, and threw it, using the momentum to rip his knife out. He went to stab another, but he felt a pair of hands grip him from behind. He turned just in time to see Alan ram the undead grabbing him with his shoulder, sending both of them sprawling. In the tumble, the zombie landed on top of Alan, who was holding it back with his gun around its neck. Suddenly, a shot rang out. The zombie on top of Alan slumped over, its head popped like a balloon. The shot came from the top window of the police station, where the windows weren’t boarded up. A policeman yelled down to them. “Go around to the side of the building! We barricaded the door, but made an exit through a window! Use the car to climb up!”

     Conor helped Alan up, then saluted the cop in the window. The cop responded with his own, and went back to covering them. “Avery, grab some supplies!” He followed Conor’s orders and pulled a bag out of the trunk of the jeep, slamming it shut and dodging zombies as he followed Mason, Conor, and Alan to the alleyway. A car had been parked right against the wall of the station, and from the window above two cops waited with arms outstretched. John went first, scrambling onto the roof of the car, throwing his bags to the cops. Alan and Mason hoisted him up to the window, where the cops pulled him in. Next was Mason, Alan boosted him up and the cops pulled him in as well. Conor joined Alan on the roof of the car. “Alan, get up there!” He cupped his hands, boosting Alan to the window, where John and Mason replaced the policemen in pulling him up. This left Conor on the roof of the car, alone without a boost. Undead were closing in on him.

     “Come on, Conor! Jump!” Alan yelled. Conor did, stretching out his arms to Alan, but he couldn’t reach. He tried kicking off the wall, and still, nothing. A third jump was successful, and he clasped Alan’s hand tightly, but his hand slipped before he could get pulled up, and he fell down to the car, slumped on his side on the roof, as undead were nearing him. Risking a fourth jump would mean certain doom if it failed. There was no clear path back to the jeep, he’d need an army to clear out that many of them. But behind him, there were only a few, and a possible escape through the alleyway. Alan saw what he was looking at, and drew his gun. “Go! I’ll cover you!” With that, Conor gave him a final salute.

     “Alan!” He yelled. “Alan, if I don’t make it back--”

     “Shut up!” Alan cut him off, his voice cracking as tears welled in his eyes. “You’ll be fine, brother!” He fired off a shot, stunning a zombie in the alleyway. “Now go! RUN!”

     Alan wiped his eyes and took aim again as Conor broke into a sprint down the alleyway, trucking the zombie that had been shot. Another one fell by his side as Alan cracked off another shot. Conor took matters into his own hands and stabbed a zombie in the face, but another grabbed his arm from the side. Conor stabbed, but missed, hitting the zombie in the shoulder. Alan screamed, firing but missing. Conor managed to wrestle free, tearing his knife out of the zombie and backing into the alleyway as zombies converged on him. “Conor!”

     “Alan!” Came the faint response, barely audible over the hordes of undead moaning and growling. “I’m here!”

     “Conor!” Alan helplessly screamed, still firing into the crowd.

     “Alan, I--agh!” Alan heard Conor’s response cut off by his own screams. He couldn’t see his friend among the horde anymore.

     “Conor!? CONOR!” Alan’s voice cracked as he pleaded for his friend to answer. “Conor, please!” With tears streaming down his cheeks, Alan fired into the crowd, unloading his rifle. “Conor! NO!” Alan fired even beyond the PING of his magazine ejecting, the empty rifle clicking with each pull of the trigger. John came up behind him, grabbing him from behind and pulling him from the window.

     “Alan, I’m sorry, but you have to stop!” John pleaded with Alan, wrestling with the large man as he pulled him backwards. “Alan! Stop! HE’S GONE!”

     And the sudden realization hit him. His best friend, his  _ brother _ , was gone. Dead. Alan dropped his rifle and slouched forward in Avery’s grip. John hugged his teammate as he let out a heart wrenching wail, followed by heavy sobs. Alan dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hand, the other one resting on his knee. Mason Grace dropped to a knee in front of Alan, placing a hand on his shoulder as tears started to fall down his face as well, weeping at both the loss for their leader, and for Alan, who was easily more broken about it than the rest of them. Alan placed his hands on the ground and continued to sob for his fallen brother, rocking slightly in John and Mason’s arms. He slowly crawled to the window, peering over the sill, and took in a deep breath.

“CONOR!” His cry echoed throughout the alleyway, but there was no response.


End file.
